


RK1700december

by faucer



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, RK17cember, Tags to be added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:33:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27822325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faucer/pseuds/faucer
Summary: RK1700december: first prompt is meeting! they meet!me: ahaha no they don't
Relationships: Connor/Upgraded Connor | RK900, Rk1700
Comments: 30
Kudos: 21
Collections: RK1700 December 2020





	1. per aspera ad astra.

— 1. meeting. per aspera ad astra. (lunar AU, connor's POV)

 _“poison sinks its fangs  
_ _into my body_  
_and the lunar drizzle  
_ _hits me”_

earth from here is really beautiful. the uncountable number of constellations, in the obscure void, have an ethereal glimmer. the veil of the night it’s too cold for my body to handle at this point, but i console myself with the sound of stars’ morse code reverberating through this empty rusted chassis of mine. the melody that comes out of it had once been a famous popular song from this satellite’s planet; the lyrics spoke about love, peace and happiness, diverse languages trying their attempt at communicating to the amaranthine universe. and those who might have been listening. however now the chords, suffering like me the passing of time, are all off-key, but, to be frank, i much prefer this tune. less artificial, and more natural. all different from me, ironically. occasionally, scrap metals and meteorites fly aimlessly around the no-gravity atmosphere, allowing the echo of the sound to hit them, rendering the notes what are cracked up to be. when it relentlessly rains mercury, the drops mix with my solitary tears, and, for a moment, i’m happy again. as it happens, the few remnant bits of the paint on my face chip and wash away, leaving my features completely anonymous. although my factory-made appearance and having no legs to move forward, i wonder, if we met, would your blue roses eyes still recognize me? that is my sole worry these years. my memories are fading quickly but still, if i could express one wish, then, it had to be for you to hear it, this wretched music of mine. the only thing i truly ever made on my own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RK1700december: first prompt is meeting! they meet!  
> me: ahaha no they don't


	2. if i’m the only god then you’re proof of my existence.

— 2. secret. / 3. vulnerable. if i’m the only god then you’re proof of my existence. (cw: softporn light robogore)

helpless moans spill from their shared room, a faint trembling yellowy dimmer escaping the threshold, the only signs of their presence in an otherwise wholly dark apartment, since androids are able to see even with minimal light. “nnh– ninehundred—” is the static that connor can’t help hold down _“please”_ the strain on his vocalbox has been too much he has to resort to telepathy. the RK900 finds it endearing, how weak he seems and how meek he behaves under his control “you’ve been so good up until now, connor.” it’s a backhanded praise, because it implies to not complain further _“please. it hurts.”_ RK900 releases a long hum, pensive, but instead of complying he continues, speaking over connor’s fragmented whines “come on, it’s not that bad, isn’t it? i’ve already erased the last two digits, endure it a bit more.” he barely finishes the phrase, and connor sends waves of alarmed pings in a furious hurry _“there’s still 12 numbers! and 2 letters! and the logo! and the words! it hurts! it hurts! no more! please!”_ there’s a pause.  
and connor thrashing momentarily stops. tears slowly boring their tracks a shade less on his visage’s pale skin, ending piled up on the soaked pillow. in his wired brain executed is the relief that it’s all over. his chest acts in consequence, heaving sluggishly a more relaxed pace. as to confirm his suspects RK900 sighs and then gets up, probably to abandon his work and leave the sandpaper somewhere else, to pick up the little key for opening his own handcuffs, currently holding hostage connor's left wrist at the frame on head of the bed. but when the other sits again on the edge of the mattress, at his side, he does not show what connor's software preconstructed.  
and the pathetic squirming begins again, more desperate than before if possible, tears start rolling again on his cheeks, now occasionally glitching out in stress “shh, shh.” the coos near his ear are so gentle he’d like to believe such lie “it’s alright.” another murmur, as the bigger android cards his fingertips through connor’s hair, motherly affection in his gestures, near-like utter devotion in his gray eyes. “it’ll take more time but it will cause you less pain.” as he says this his palm descends from connor’s crown and ghosts across his body, finally reaching where it had left off, gripping with force the end of his forearm. in the right hand used iron wool “although, it’s not fair, isn’t it? for you to not ache, for you to have a better fate than those androids you killed.” agonizingly rough RK900 does not waste time, and attempts at scraping off connor’s engraved serial number on his plasti-steel real skin. it’s hell. and it burns just like it. “it’s why you asked me in the first place, for this to hurt, didn’t you, connor?” _HURT HURT HURT H UURT HRTTT HURT HURTHURTHURTHURT_ “because you **wanted** it to hurt you. to atone for your sins in some remote way.” despite his calm tone, RK900’s voice is carrying the venom he’s spitting, is caustic, like the acid connor feels being poured onto his sensors, corroding every fiber each time the materials clash, each time his alloy is abrased, each time flakes of minuscule black paint imperceptibly come flying down against their will, each time rivulets of blue blood drips on the sheets “you know,” it’s almost an amused little thing, the corner of RK900’s mouth “i actually stole this from the lieutenant’s sink.” connor’s eyes go wide for a moment, dizzy in his lazy understanding, then his frantic movements reprise in full motion, hating how his superior boyfriend model can be this cunning without him noticing “since he helped you in becoming deviant, i thought, it would only be fitting for him – well, a memento to act as him – to follow you in this next step too.” RK900 knows his ‘personal touch’ on the handiwork will be appreciated “don’t worry, of course i will keep this little secret of ours from him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> despite what you might think this is all 100% consensual! 9s is actually being eaten alive by the guilt every single second of this kinkish activity lol there's tons of soft aftercare but uhh no energy to write it love u anyway weirdly enough i thought of writing something similar but with a very different vibe and yet i had to rush things so there's that. i feel stupid i used such a nice idea this way but im happy overall


	3. please pity me already.

— 4. damaged. / 6. comfort. / 9. overheat. please pity me already.  
  
“is it reed's fault?” connor absentmindedly asks at the door’s hinges’ screeching complain on being shut with too much inhuman force, not even turning from his position, eyes facing the thirium bottle he was about to drink on the kitchen counter. RK900 doesn't respond, busy venting rage by hanging his jacket “is it–” “ **_no it’s not!_ ** ” connor’s tentative second approach is interrupted by the other’s yell and the RK800 can't help but sigh in defiance.  _ it is _ reed's fault.  
  
RK900-87: /i’m sorry..../   
  
it’s a pop-up that covers connor’s internal hud “it’s fine, love.” he says out loud, and RK900’s apologetic face peeks out from the corner “come here” connor, now looking towards the jamb attempting to hide the rest of his sheepish boyfriend, signals with his fingers to get closer “i didn’t mean to–” “i know” he finishes for RK900, embracing his bulkier frame and slowly caressing his back, until RK900’s comfortable enough to gently lower his head and snuggle in the crook of connor’s own neck, and even then the pets never fail to tenderly ground him to the present, helping him adhering completely to connor, relaxing “let me comfort you.” they stay like this, thirty seconds of perfect stillness, their breathing programs tweaked to a minimum, synched up, and then connor breaks the silence by leaving a kiss on RK900’s hair, who, thanks to the affection, has calmed down a little “he keeps bothering me” it’s the mumbling mess that connor receives and his lips pursue in a pout “but when isn’t he, mh?” RK900 slightly nod, his eyelashes tickling the synthskin they’re in contact with “yeah but” he can feel his anger rise again, tormenting his processors “but—” heat pools in every crevice of his body, strands of hot air escape his flared nostrils “ _ but! _ ” he can’t manage to complete the sentence, as the loud noise of gears grinding and whirring smother his speech. it’s been like this for two weeks now, ever since he sustained an injury during work – nothing serious, of course, he’s exceptionally sturdy, but the blow accidentally hit him in such way that it precisely broke a couple sensors critical to the cool-down effect, making necessary for him to let out steam and a rather unconventional noise to accompany it. only thinking about it makes him feel so livid he has to physically detach himself from connor and just–  _ just–  _ scrunch up his fists and grit his white chiselled teeth, poorly trying to redirect his anger away.   
connor understands, connor always understands him. and therefore he knows that words are not useful in this moment.    
  
RK800-XX: /no need to talk, baby. telepathy is okay./   
RK900-87: /you don’t have to accommodate me./   
RK800-XX: /and you don’t have to be stubborn. accommodating for you is not a problem./   
RK900-87: /..../   
RK800-XX: /dear?/   
RK900-87: /sorry./   
/ _ again. _ /  
RK800-XX: /they still haven’t called you in for repairs?/   
RK900-87: /not yet. the RK900 model is apparently very complex in compatibility terms as well./   
RK800-XX: /ah/   
the sound of a soft chuckle echoes in both of their shared connections.   
/i bet you are./   
/but, you know, i don’t mind./   
/to me it seems the purr of a cat. it’s soothing./   
/i love you for how you are./   
/damaged or not./   
RK900-87: /love u too <3 <3 :-)/


	4. if you turn your loneliness into a score and compare it to other people's, theirs will never be higher.

— 5. replacement. / 7. machine. if you turn your loneliness into a score and compare it to other people's, theirs will never be higher. (RK900's POV, actually reposting lol)  
  
“do you like bitter chocolate?” he once heard officer tina chen asks detective gavin reed.  
he doesn’t need to ingest food, he doesn’t know the flavour of chocolate, less that of the bitter variant, but if he could he’d be curious to try it.  
curious? that’s a human sensation. but he’s not human, he’s an android. cartilage, bones, blood vessels, he’s got nothing of the sort. he’s made of synthetic fluids, wires, thirium 310. but if he’s so different in composition why his appearance is so similar to them? where does the ‘machine’ ends and the ‘human’ starts? where do they meet? because, they meet, right? he often ponders about these questions, not succeeding at finding a suitable answer. ‘to be a robot’ is the closest hypothesis he’s thought of. to resemble others but not quite, be it for better or worse. his conclusion is: difficult. pretending is a hard task to accomplish, unlike his predecessor, however, he’s facilitated; both artificial breathing and social modules have been tweaked to the minimum. as an RK900 unit he’s not supposed to be average. but isn’t not belonging to neither of the factions the epitome of mediocrity?  
“you should slow down.” he’s told by captain jeffrey fowler in his office. his body language’s pretty evident, it’s not an advice but an order, he noticed the bad looks in the precinct, how he’s hated by every colleague. it’s not his fault, after all, if people can’t keep up with his standards; it had been estimated that with his presence the detroit city police department success rate would have been increased by the 47% but with this ostracization he’ll have to calculate again.  
“do you think he’s programmed to laugh?” cop chris miller murmurs to the fellow robert lewis. he doesn’t move, his LED palely circling yellow. it’s obviously a remark meant to be humored but he also picks up a faint hint of worry in the tone, perhaps there’s a glitch in his software and it’s more discomfort than anything. what do they expect from him? to throw in light jokes, some smooth talk here and there? to always smile and please? ‘to always smile and please’ is probably what humans would retort at an android’s raison d’ȇtre. if that’s the purpose why are cyberlife’s products completely devoid of the only thing worth adoring about their own kind; emotions? even dogs and cats are appreciated for their display of feelings and worship, and while the latter is already present in modern gears why is the former absent? it must be a faulty design. of course, since ‘creators’ are flawed so are their ‘creations’. there is not such a thing as perfection, then?  
“no wonder that diet isn’t working!” m. wilson sneers at detective ben collins, not choosing the doughnut with less sugary glaze. he’s instantly reminded of cocoa and, linked to that, is the record of ‘the other connor’, his eyes the same brown color but a different tinge; sweet. the most amiable taste aware to man, the first, the same they suck from their mother breasts.  
he thoroughly studies his fingers before slowly putting his digits on the tongue. he’s bitter. fake. impossible to love for _them_.  
who must fix that picky eating habit? 


	5. bocca della verità.

— 18. human. / 27. home. bocca della verità. (cw: incest, inheritance lawsuit mention? worse than the incest imo)

they sit in framed gold ornate leather chairs, both opposite cross legged, dressed in semi-elegant attires: nines in his dark turtleneck, connor in a disheveled button-down paired with a slightly loose tie and an uncoordinated suit. “ehh, you see” the chubby lawyer begins, after faking to clear his voice, his eyes slowly narrowing in that typical way, as if about to utter the most important of truths “your inheritance; that’s a simple case,” another dramatic interruption, like reciting a part, and he recalls his porcine hand to mindlessly massage from his cheeks towards the chin, showing the stains of sweat under his pits on his striped blue shirt “but if your mother....” apparently calm, at that mention, they’re barely betrayed by the restless nervousness of a knee jerking in half-restrained, precise continuous movements.  
when the meeting comes to an end, the short round man attempts to approach them for a farewell hug by opening his arms, but nines manages to salvage his brother with a last-second backward tug of his jacket, fingers slinking possessively around connor’s waist, opting instead for just a polite bow of his head.  
“does he ever open the windows? it reeks of his ego in there.” connor, coming out right behind, points with his thumb at the massive wooden entrance. nines, already facing him, back stretched onto the car’s door, laughs faintly “not the only thing that reeks.” connor smiles an amused _‘ah’_ in return while confusingly searching in his front pockets, taking out a pack of cigs and putting one in his mouth, only to then re-start his clumsy fumbling “remind me why we need him.” nines huffs, sight wandering someplace else seeking distraction, or maybe simply not wanting to think about his lovely boyfriend smoking that disgusting flavoured tobacco “huh? of course momanda will hate him.” connor chews, words distorted by the butt of the cigarette between his lips, as his palms still look for a lighter in every crevice of his clothes “just like she hates you calling her that, then?” desperate at the scene, a smirk adorning his features, nines can’t help but grab his zippo and light it with a snap of his fingers “exactly!” it’s the giddy trill that comes from connor’s mouth, v shaped phalanges nearing towards the flame, his forehead dangerously close to his brother’s own, their noses brushing past each other — instant desire flicking in their minds: to be together, to embrace their bodies until they melt into one, to pretend to not see the black spider before opening the faucet and swirl it down the drain, to forget everything about this mess, to _just kiss, right now._   
“connor, we're outside” reluctantly, nines has to stop both from getting intimate, his lids closing in defeat, he’d much rather bite off his arm than to halt this precious moment but he knows they can’t commit such deadly mistakes now. connor gasps “sorry, i–” stuttering his movements as he achingly distances himself “i know. i miss you too.” after nines’ low voice there’s a pause, seconds of silence, a couple stifled sighs, brown pupils growing sadder, fixed on the ground between their polished shoes “sorry, this thing's been stressing me.” nines can feel his heart tight in clutches, of course it has, of course it has been stressing him “it's not only that. dad's death hit you the most, and....” perhaps, they can’t concede themselves a kiss, but having connor this hurt is insufferable for nines, and his body acts without his accord: connor’s nape already strung together beside his “mh.” it’s a bittersweet hum, digits threading tenderly “all i want, is for you to be happy. and yet it seems that's the last thing i can give you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to write more explicit incest but :( i saw the prompt home n just got hit with trauma flashbacks and was like "free therapy <3"


	6. bitter enemies in the same boat, we tried to kill each other wholeheartedly today too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for context: connor & nine are soulmates that always get reincarnated, however at the start of this life, nine doesn't remember his past with connor, takes on a new name and does some kinda 'good guy' job that endlessly trails after connor, codependent wretched little thing without the love of his lives, that grows bitter and, in a mix of spite and wanting to be with nine, becomes a 'bad guy'. the catch is that no matter how much nine tries to get connor they both end up having hours of sex and make out sessions. the guilt lol! their new names are respectively nine and eight, connor much prefers his old one of when they were happy together though.  
> also. this is actually the first explicit sex scene i've written without getting bored 'straight' away and actually posted therefore hurray! unfortunately writing sex doesn't really interest me but i think that's clear from how it unenthusiastically came out sorry :'(

— 23. resurrection. / 24. identity. / 26. possessiveness. jealousy. greed. / 28. instinct. bitter enemies in the same boat, we tried to kill each other wholeheartedly today too. (cw: soft gore, innuendos of wounds as sexual intercourse, incorrect unsanitary use of bodily fluids, badly written anal sex) 

connor’s fingers dips into blood-stained flesh, his nails tear and scratch tiny bits of broken derma, until the tips of his digits reach for the bullet, slippery index and thumb unable to fish out the crushed exploded metal, actually pushing it back down, digging more and more into the muscle, heaving moans of aching, wincing and faster breaths out of the man under his thighs “sorry, i’m very clumsy” the serene lie flows from connor’s mouth like liquid air, his amused smile contradicting the unhearthfelt apology “you were– very, _AH_ –” the other runs out of oxygen once more, lungs sucking in, gasping deeply, his choked whimper breaking the sentence “very– _shit._ precise at–” the middle gets added into the wound, scraping inside the soft meat but effectively helping in pulling up the ammunition “aiming?” connor chirps absent-mindedly, his attention shifted to the little piece between his grasp, carefully put onto the small table next to the bed they’re on “yeah” nine grits through his teeth, exposed chest smeared in red sweat as his dear enemy applies a semi-transparent bandage over the gouged gap below his clavicle, nanomachines imperatively beginning treatment, fizzing, sizzling, seeping into his body, slowly corroding the tissue in order to both sterilize and at the same time repair the damage done. his torso starts shaking ever so lightly, hurt spreading all over in a feverishly frenzy, ravishing the last few fibers of his sanity, forcing everything in him to go into survival mode, adrenaline pumping in his veins, his wrists audibly dragging down the cuffs into the iron-barred headboard “don’t act like you hate it.” connor whispers, lowering his head, grounding him, phalanges firmly pinning his jaw he lazily kisses him “i would never inflict on you unwanted pain.” and as he says this he grinds on nine’s clothed hard cock, resting sufferingly against connor’s ass “maybe.” he finishes the phrase with a wink. although it seems as if ninehundred isn’t let in on this dangerous game of theirs, connor thinks otherwise “well, now,” he returns to the half-upright position he had before, knuckles eager to plunge, piercing viscerally, tormenting yet again “i believe to have struck you at least with another one.” he doesn’t need to, but because he wants his ex-notsoex-boyfriend to not know when he’s going to feel the forthcoming fusillade of agony, he palms nine’s tense abdomen, savouring every inch, mapping several times the contour of his chiselled build, until, relaxed, he’s ready to dive to the core of a different gunshot injury “wait.” gaze averted to the side, nine interrupts, face pinkish, however not because of his condition “not.... like this.” he only pronounces a few words, but they’re enough for connor to understand: genuinely not mocking, rather, pleasantly surprised, his mouth distorts into an “ **oh.** ” he doesn’t dismount the bull ready to have a cow beneath him, instead, he makes quick dirty work of his clothes and then of nine’s remaining ones, leaving both undressed, with plenty of room to maneuver and rummage the drawer, grabbing a bottle of lube “i’ll do the honors, would you mind helping?” he smiles, sincere, and nine silently raises his knees, planting his feet into the pulpy mattress, supporting and leveraging connor’s weight, who’s already fingering himself open, putting on a lewd hypnotic show only for him to see “just like i– ( _mmh_ ) did before. ( ** _ah–a_** ) to you.” connor smirks, lowly sneering, too much of nine’s smudged blood mixing with the viscous fluid going in and out of his hole at an entrancing rhythm, drawing empty instinctive shoves of nine’s hips “unsanitary.” he remarks, faintly more confident now that there’s no use in keeping the superficial untruth of his morals, poorly trying to control himself, visibly struggling with the restraint burning burgundy imprints on him “we’ve done worse, love.” connor quips, content, flushed as he lets himself slide down his partner’s dick with one seamless motion, whining a happy _‘ahh’_ once entirely stuffed, his plush stomach vaguely swelled “you’re the sole that fills me like this.” connected, fused as one, they pause; relishing in the moment, nine aware that he’s still not allowed to move excessively for his own good, as connor has to perform the usual unorthodox ‘surgery’, extracting obscene sounds, a routine of squelching and twisting, torturing the extra puncture, though faster than before removing the umpteenth trophy and placing it near the first, probably a bit too raring to be satisfied “and for your favourite part....” connor jokes and takes full delight on pasting yet a section of the nude synth tape, immediately obtaining, from his counterpart, tearful garbling squirms that have him greatly enjoy both the involuntary thrusts inside him and the anguishing barks. the same that angrily stop _“take care of these, eight.”_ nine’s hiss rouses connor out of his sadistic trance, who, a tad tipsy on pleasure, do as told: picking up, from the dark mahogany nightstand, the key, so silver and minuscule that could be easily mistaken for a third bullet “good thing i didn’t lose it, right?” he teases, nevertheless dutifully in undoing the handcuffs, however not foreseeing that as soon as he frees nine, the man jumps at him, making exhibit of his apparent brute force, reversing their positions, his back presently superficially molding the sheets instead. face few inches to nine’s, holding back from inhaling, perhaps scared of ruining the momentum, of his soulmate taking his leave, of what can happen next, of all of this having been one-sided “i’m the sole that fills you like this because i’m the only one that can.” here it is, _here it is!_ , his fiancé, his eternal other half, despite fate’s cruel machinations he’s still there, _he’s still there_ , poignantly craving for him; each of connor’s worries are dissolved in a fraction of a second and he’s overjoyed at nine’s declaration, so much so that he can hardly stifle a laugh, but nine doesn’t even give him time to, as he begins to mercilessly pound him “i’m the only one allowed to touch you,” he’s being deliberately rough, fast, as if in a catharsis “to hold you,” he slurs his words on connor’s neck, occasionally biting, sucking, kissing “to fuck you until your voice is hoarse.” he huffs hot imperceptible clouds of steam against connor mouth, their shared abysmal stare locked in place, hesitant “you’re mine.” a murmur, and then they kiss. tenderly, as if not an entire life has passed by “mine to please,” nine gladly returns to the moving of his pelvis, gentler, more torpid, drowning in the high “mine to fill,” connor’s ecstatic symphony of vocalizations pours into the whole room, leading the rhythm to a crescendo “mine to do as i think fit,” sharp hits angled with intense voracity, to better hammer connor’s sweet spots, alternates in contrast to sloppy caring kisses “mine to worship.” the pace hasten more, con brio, driven again by connor’s hiccuping moans and nine’s own grunts “mine, eight.” they climax together, nine slightly after, spilling his cum deeply inside connor “no– no!, _no...._ ” desperate plays in connor’s mind, and trembling from the strain, basking in the afterglow, he calls to him, cradling nine’s features towards himself, cupping his cheeks, a lonesome drop streaks his left eye “my real name.” the one you cried at night and muttered in the morning, the one you chuckled onto my lips, the one you loved, the one you pronounced in marriage, the one you said before dying “you’re mine. and i’m yours, **_connor_**.”


End file.
